Chapter 1
I was already reaching for Emma when Lauren touched her.
I wasn't fast enough.
My six-month-old daughter screamed.
The sound cut through the Christmas music and stopped every conversation at my parents' dinner table. Emma's little hands flew open. Her face crumpled, and she struggled for breath before the next cry came.
I pulled her against my chest.
Lauren stood across from us, her hand still raised.
My sister had slapped my baby.
For one second, I couldn't speak. I could only feel Emma shaking inside her red Christmas onesie.
Lauren lowered her hand and sighed.
“Oh, please. It was barely a tap.”
“You hit her.”
“She kept crying.”
“She is six months old.”
“And you're teaching her that screaming gets her whatever she wants.”
I looked around the table, waiting for someone to say what I could barely force out.
My mother, Margaret, stared at her plate.
Dad gripped his fork but didn't move.
Uncle Frank looked away.
Emma's cries turned thin and frightened. I rocked her, checking her face. Her cheek was red, but she followed my voice when I spoke.
“It's okay, sweetheart. I've got you.”
My voice didn't sound like mine.
A chair scraped against the floor.
James stood.
My husband had been home from a nine-month overseas deployment for twelve days. I'd spent those twelve days watching him learn the shape of our daughter's days. He knew which song settled her and how she liked to hold his finger while she fell asleep.
Now he looked at Lauren.
“Leave,” he said.
Lauren blinked. “What?”
“You struck Emma. Leave the house.”
“This is Dad's house,” she said. “You don't get to throw me out.”
James turned to my father.
“Then it's your decision.”
Dad's mouth opened. He glanced at Lauren, then at my mother. He said nothing.
Lauren gave a small laugh. “See?”
Mom set down her napkin.
“James, we're all tired. Let's take a breath before anyone says something they regret.”
I stared at her.
“Lauren hit Emma,” I said.
“I'm aware of what happened.”
“Then say it.”
Mom pressed her lips together. “Your sister shouldn't have done that.”
Lauren threw up her hands. “Thank you.”
“That isn't what I meant,” Mom said, but she still wouldn't look at Emma.
The silence around the table felt worse than Lauren's excuses.
For months, Mom had told me I worried too much. She said I picked Emma up too quickly, called the pediatrician too often, and treated every cry like an emergency.
I had started to wonder whether she was right.
Then my sister struck my child in front of all of us, and Mom wanted everyone to calm down.
“No,” I said. “You don't get to smooth this over.”
“Claire,” Mom warned.
I held Emma closer. “I brought her here because I thought she was safe with you.”
Mom's face changed, but Lauren spoke first.
“Oh, spare us. James comes home and suddenly you remember how to stand up for yourself.”
James stepped beside me.
“Get her things,” he said quietly. “We're going home.”
I nodded, though my knees felt weak.
Lauren leaned against the back of her chair.
“Fine. Take your screaming baby and go.”
James lifted Emma's diaper bag from the floor. He put my coat over my shoulders, keeping his movements careful so he wouldn't startle her again.
Then he faced my sister.
“Stay away from my daughter.”
Lauren's smirk slipped for an instant.
I carried Emma through the dining room. Christmas lights glowed along the hallway where Dad had hung them every year since we were children.
I had helped him untangle those same lights that morning.
Mom followed us to the entryway.
“Claire, please. Don't leave like this.”
“How should I leave?”
“We can discuss it tomorrow.”
“Emma can't wait until tomorrow to have adults protect her.”
Mom's eyes filled. I might have gone to her once. I might have apologized for upsetting everyone.
Instead, I turned toward the door.
James reached for the knob.
“Claire.”
Dad's voice stopped us.
He had come out of the dining room with one hand pressed against the wall. He looked older than he had an hour earlier.
I waited.
He glanced behind him. Lauren stood at the far end of the hallway. Mom had gone very still.
“There is something you need to know,” Dad said.
“Then tell me.”
He swallowed.
“About Lauren and Emma.”
I felt James straighten beside me.
Lauren walked forward. “Dad, don't.”
Dad looked at her for a long moment. Whatever he saw in her face seemed to settle something.
“Last week,” he said, “Lauren told people at the church that Emma was her daughter.”
I couldn't make sense of the words.
“She what?”
“She said she was raising Emma while James was away.”
“That isn't true.”
“I know.”
Lauren's voice rose. “I said I helped with her. People misunderstood.”
Dad shook his head.
“I heard you tell Mrs. Avery that Claire wasn't fit to care for Emma.”
Mom closed her eyes.
My grip tightened around my daughter. James gently touched my arm.
Dad took one step closer.
“I should have told you when I heard it. I didn't. Then this morning I found something else.”
Lauren moved between us.
“Dad. Stop.”
He didn't.
“She has a signed form that says you've given her permission to take Emma.”
The Christmas music kept playing in the other room.
Emma rested against me, finally quiet, while every person in the hallway waited for my answer.
“I never signed anything,” I said.
May you like
Dad's face crumpled.
“I know, Claire.”
